The Book of Hours
by ACleverName
Summary: 1190, Nottingham. Marian of Knighton's young cousin Theodosia is expecting and has recently lost her husband. Marian writes to her to keep her entertained in her confinement, confiding disconcerting rumors of trouble coming from the north. Meanwhile, Guy of Gisborne assesses Nottingham before Vaisey arrives. Pre-season 1. Mildly Guy/Marian.
1. Letters 1- 5

i.

Feast of St Marciana and St Pachasia, virgin martyrs

9 January Year of Our Lord 1190

My dear Theodosia,

Thank you for the Feast Day gift. I am very sorry to not have made the journey to Skipton for the Twelfth Night revels your father holds—well, you know we send greetings and warmest love. You know were it not for my sickness, I would have made the journey in the worst of conditions. I know what it is to be isolated, even in a manor like your father has—

I write ill, do I not? I compose ill, and always have, since we were girls. A waste, is it not, for a woman to know how to read and not compose something beautiful or at least witty for her own cousin?

But I thank you again for the gift. My father is much loved as the Sheriff, and I am therefore favored with many gifts. But your prayer missal, embroidered in your own unmistakeable hand—you are far too good. I hope that in the future you will lend your time instead to doing some good work for the poor.

But as you have made me the gift, and it is so exquisite, let me thank you in my own way: I will give you my own book of hours, to tell you of the seasons in Nottinghamshire so that we may be close. I know that it will soon be you who cannot travel, for several seasons at least, so let your cousin entertain you.

Marian

ii.

Theodosia's Book of Prayers

made by her cousin Marian of Knighton

beginning

Feast Day of St Anthony

17 January Year of Our Lord 1190

You see that I improve already—we have had two pilgrims at Knighton since Twelfth Night, one of them a nun from Scotland on pilgrimage to Rome, and the other her novice, daughter to a tanner, who is learning her letters and much improves my penmanship by her constant attention. "If you make it for your cousin, milady," she said, "give it all your heart." By that, I suppose, she meant I should take more trouble with my writing, and not to blot the ink, and to treat calves' skin as a precious thing. Also that I should make my stitches neater on the binding. I fear she does not know me at all.

I told my father that it was good to have female company at Knighton. He smirked at me. Smirked, Theodosia. He knows that I have to have the solar to myself, and that I cannot bear anyone impressing their will upon me. I am most spoiled. I am obedient to my father because he is a just and kind man, and I am very fortunate. I do not know if I would be obedient to my mother, for she might find me very troublesome.

I am writing you these notes on the progress of your book of hours so that when you receive it in its entirety—on the birth of your boy, God willing, I know you long for a boy—your book's defects will be less dreadful to you, and you may even learn to forgive your silly, elderly spinster of a cousin. I also send you this skein of thread for your embroidery—it is from the village of Locksley, for they dye with a red I have not seen anywhere else in the shire. I warrant you do not have such colors in Skipton.

The last time your father visited Knighton, he brought a message from you, and I feel I cannot avoid answering it. Yes, you have heard rightly: Robin—now Earl of Huntingdon—is still far away from these lands. It does not pain me, Theodosia, as it once did. I had word from his squire that they had reached the Outeremer a year and some months ago. They survived Damascus and now winter on the coast. They are in God's hands. What else can I say? We shall not speak of him again.

It would be hard, Theodosia, if all our news were to be bad. I saw your husband only at your wedding, and for you to lose him before he even knew you were with child . . . Now, you are young, and I am old. Fourteen is by no means too young to be married and mother, but I would caution you against recklessly seeking another husband. "What does Marian know of husbands?" Well, plenty—I know of husbands and wives in this shire, who cannot be so very different from those in Skipton Castle. You have your father's protection, and your mother and aunts will help you raise your child better than any second husband could. Your William's sister is a prattling busybody who finds no happiness in her own life and must meddle in others. (Please say you will hide this letter in your box with the key you carry on your husif.)

As for the other matter, the leaves of the cherry tree mixed with hydromel (or if there are no leaves in your store, use bark) will help. I have used this remedy many times.

Marian

iii.

Feast Day of St Valentius

14 February Year of Our Lord 1190

Theodosia:

Heaven protect us from fools.

I hope you will not sorrow much when thinking of your William. Be assured I do not think of Robin a jot. I am much too busy. There is much sickness in Nottingham, and it is worse in Clun. I am kept occupied most days by preparing bundles of food to take to the villagers—and before you scoff and say I do less than nothing at all, please remember that it is next to impossible to persuade our cook to give up even a morsel of food. She puts her hands on her hips—my father says he did the same in my mother's day—and says some liturgy of her own in tongues whenever she thinks I am skulking about. "If you want to do some good, Lady Marian," she says, "get yourself married." I open my mouth to reply. "I know the master will have my hide if he hears me saying that. Very well. You can help-" "Yes?" "By mending the privy door."

I am glad your stomach complaint has eased, though I am sorry you could not find the cherry tree. It is never too early to try laurel.

I am much pleased that you have begun to embroider a box to put your book of hours in—although that is what is known as taking the cart before the horse. Nevertheless, as you say you have knitted woollens enough for all the castle pages and the foundlings of the hospital of St Bridget and the blind hermit who lives in the cave (does he really live in a cave?), please do me the great honor of embroidering the box. I only hope the book will not disgrace it.

The pedlar who comes this way every Christmas has finally arrived and says he had been held up in Clyderow, which is near you, is it not? He says he was imprisoned in the stocks for ten days and nearly died in the elements. He says there is trouble in the north, and it is coming our way. My father cannot be seen to listen to idle gossip, but I hope he will take the pedlar aside when the nobles of Nottingham are not looking. I think the pedlar is not given to exaggeration, whatever Master Thornton of Locksley says. If there is really trouble on the way—and what? And why?-we should be prepared for it. The pedlar had too much ale at the fireside and began to sing a song about a blackbird. It made all the kitchen girls weep. My father's eyes were glinting in the firelight, too, Theodosia, and I don't know why.

Marian

iv.

Day of St Peter's Chair at Antioch

22 February Year of Our Lord 1190

Theodosia:

You may be right—the song about the blackbird may have been one my mother sang. I cannot bear to ask my father. The burdens of his office are very great now. Last harvest was not good, and the villagers are at the last of their winter reserves. I am glad that it will soon be Lent, as that may make the lords in Nottingham and the nuns at Kirklees give up their meat. You may also be right that the cold is aggravating your pains. I am glad that your William's household has a good midwife. She agrees about the laurel, surely? Here we have not had snow since January, which is strange. It is as if everyone is waiting for something.

No, I did not mend the privy door. You are worse than a boy sometimes.

I accompanied my father to the castle two days ago and stopped at the inn to ask about Roger's bruised shoulder He has been the innkeeper in Nottingham since before I was born, and he fell while mending the second floor window into the courtyard. The physician put it right for him, but I was skeptical that the man had done it right. Roger gratefully took the poultice of crushed oak with wax for the bruising, but his wife Sarah kept complaining about the workload. She said a traveling group of noblemen were coming to Nottingham very soon. The first one, she said, was arriving that very afternoon. I admit I was curious, but I did not stay to find out more.

You asked me, if I had been a man, would I have gone on the Crusade to fight? I think you just want me to write about Robin again even though I told you I go months without his ever entering my head.

I confess I am disturbed by what the pedlar said. My father did listen to my doubts gravely, and, to his credit, he listened as he would to a petitioner for justice at the Council of Nobles. But in the end, since the pedlar had not been specific about the evil that was to throng the land (my father's sarcastic words), he said we could not fear shadows. "Isn't there enough activity here for you, Marian, or would you welcome another plague?" "Father, God forbid," I said. I read your missal in the chapel after that, as penance, though I admit my mind wandered and I wondered whether my father ever wished for a son.

Marian

v.

Feast of St Alexander

26 February Year of Our Lord 1190

Theodosia:

It is true. I have seen the first of the strange knights. His name is Sir Guy of Gisborne. Is not Gisborne near you? Have you ever been there? I could get no information about it, or him, from Beatrice the Twin (the castle's most devoted gossip, and she is called Beatrice the Twin because there is another Beatrice here at Knighton. That one is just ordinary Beatrice. Beatrice the Twin's twin is named Bertha and married the blacksmith in Waddington). He is tall. He looks battle-weary though I do not think he has taken the Cross. Sarah the innkeeper's wife was showing an inordinate interest in him—quite unseemly, I thought, with her husband Roger in the room and injured as well—so I declined to do more than bow my head in their general direction. I will know his business soon enough as my father is sure to invite him to the Council of Nobles. I know enough that the Gisborne name can command a seat there to begin with, even if his stay here is short.

The weather has not changed. You keep all the snows to yourselves in Skipton. But that means the food shortage has eased. My father sleeps better at night.

I did not realize you asked me in earnest about going to the Crusades. I feared you teased me, as everyone else does, that I spent my girlhood running the cobbles with a wooden sword like all the pages of my age. That my nurse despaired of ever sitting me down to prayers or to sew. That my father had to promise to get me a tutor for my letters so that I would behave myself. And that after that, the floodgates being open, all the villagers—and probably half of Knighton—whispered that I was more man than woman. I know I would have had to understand fully in my heart that I fought for love of Christ, for love of King, and the desire to do good and holy works. Because if I were a man, Theodosia, perhaps I would be enamored of glory and bloodshed which, as a woman, I believe are poisonous things.

I think you must name the boy whatever you think best. I think William would suit him. Also to name him after your father would make him very proud. Please do not brave the pain. Ask the midwife for her counsel and, failing that, ask Marian to come and I will.

Marian


	2. Interlude 1

vi.

Guy followed the retreating figure as she crossed the inn yard and moved away from the castle to climes unknown. He stepped back into the inn, his tankard empty, and set it down loudly in front of the ale-wife. "Who was that?" he asked.

Sarah glanced up at him, unconcerned. She did not finish cutting her herbs on the wood of her scullery table quickly enough for Guy, who glowered at her until she rose, with a sigh, and took his tankard back with her into the gloomy reaches of the scullery. She muttered as she disappeared, one hand pressed against the small of her back. Guy used the moment unobserved to stand in front of the wispy kitchen fire. To be seen skulking in front of fires was the province of weak women or elderly monks; he had already found Nottingham to be a cold and inhospitable place, but it would be weakness to say so.

When Sarah had returned with his full tankard, ale sloshing lazily over its rim, Guy was back, leaning malevolently over the counter. "See that you pay before I fill that again," Sarah snapped.

"Woman, I asked you a question."

She wiped her hands with a rag. "All right, all right. I heard you. That was Lady Marian Fitzwalter."

"The Sheriff's daughter?"

"Only daughter, and unmarried, too." Sarah sniffed, then went quickly back to chopping her herbs as if embarrassed by her own garrulousness.

Guy pursed his lips before meditatively taking a swig of ale. "She is not young. She cannot be younger than eighteen."

"She has had many opportunities, many offers," Sarah muttered disapprovingly, gathering up her stringy herbs and tossing them into the enormous cooking pot which simmered sullenly before the great fire.

"Then she is a fool. And her father more the fool."

Sarah gave a wry half-smile. "The Sheriff is a good man, fair and just. Everyone in Nottingham has it so. As you're a stranger, I won't tell my Roger that you said disloyal things about our Sheriff." Guy hid his face in his cup; he surprised even himself at how galling it was to be called—still and forever—a rootless stranger. "And his daughter is more law-loving than King Solomon and with a bleeding heart for all less fortunate such as I never seen in a noblewoman." Sarah tugged at a strand of hair that escaped from her snood. "Yet a queer girl."

Something struck Guy deeply inside, though he could not fathom what it was or why. "How so?"

Sarah had darkened to a beet-red. She turned her back on him, ostensibly to tend the fire. "I shan't say anything more, you've had more than enough from me." Guy leaned forward in his chair, grinning. Despite the fact that Sarah was an insolent bawd and eventually he would have to teach her her place, he had become rather fond of her gossiping nature. Besides, her ale was very good. "You're wasting your time with that one, mark you me."

"Oh?" He felt his momentary affection for the ale-wife cool as she seemed to imply a noblewoman was above his caste.

"There are much younger, much more pliant young noblewomen. Very pretty, with lands and fortunes. They would make good matches, and their fathers would thank you."

Guy nodded absently, though he had already resolved that he would make up his own mind about Marian of Knighton, whether she crossed his path again in Nottingham at the Council of Nobles or whether he paid a special visit to the Sheriff's estate at Knighton himself.

vii.

Guy felt himself bristling. Vaisey had been abundantly clear that this was an intelligence-gathering mission, and that Guy was to integrate himself into the community, betraying no sign of his real objectives until the time was right. Yet the Sheriff's policies on peasants and law-giving were so unimaginably soft, he had difficulty keeping his mouth shut.

"Let us ask our newest member. Sir Guy, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Though Guy had grown used to the insolent stares of his inferiors when brought to heel, the gaze of so many nobles—many of them far wealthier and their titles far more elevated than his, many of them much more experienced and wise in their age—levelly hotly and expectantly on him made him uncomfortable and ashamed of his discomfort. What had Vaisey said? He must effortlessly assume the mantle of control and show himself to be a man of property and resolve. Yet, as that silly ale-wife Sarah had said, he was a stranger. His origins might be hidden from common knowledge in Nottingham, but his title could not be enough to win their respect. He felt certain that even before he opened his mouth they had already condemned him.

He got to his feet and turned from the round table, arms meditatively folded over his chest. He heard murmuring behind him. "Well, of course, my lords, you must do as you think best." He swung around to face them, and his eyes met those of that girl, Marian of Knighton. He had been surprised to see her within the council chamber, and though wrapped in a warm cloak against the cold, her figure-hugging drapery of vivid red was almost a physical shock in a place where the cold and iron-clad law was made and carried out. Women had no business in the council chamber. Yet she seemed to feel it natural to come and goes as she pleased. She was no cup-bearer, and she did not kneel at the men's feet. It seemed true that she had no husband, for the only man whose gaze she sought was her father's.

He had swallowed back his surprise at her presence, and now he managed to ignore her searching, wantonly direct gaze. In other circumstances, he would have found her boldness repugnant. But all he had heard of her suggested that her actions were accepted and even encouraged. Besides, he could not help admitting that she was very beautiful.

"I am only recently come to Nottingham," he continued, when he had found his voice. He shifted his glance from the girl to sweep the room with a confidence he did not quite feel. "But I do not think you should so easily cede to these peasants' demands."

He was gratified to hear some murmurs of assent. Predictably, though, the Sheriff protested. "But Sir Guy, perhaps you do not know—the harvest was bad. The people have reason to ask for redress." Guy watched the girl, whose eyes had intelligently followed the debate, her lips even occasionally moving to form words which were never spoken aloud. He was intrigued—nay, impassioned—to find out what she was like in freer circumstances. Did she speak her mind? It was a novelty that he suspected, with some reluctance, might be merited. He had heard that she had some schooling, knew some castle leech's work, and was even an accomplished rider. Now, though, her brow was clouded over, entreating. Fascinated, he waited and watched.

"We have a duty," took up the Sheriff again, "to help our people through difficult times. Then, when the harvest is better, the serfs and yeomen can once afford to pay taxes at the higher rate."

"But can this government afford lower taxes in these difficult times?" He was quite enjoying how the lords' gaze swung back between him and Edward; this was the kind of maintenance of control that Vaisey must be teaching him to cultivate. "We have the king's foreign wars to subsidize, not to mention the upkeep of the town itself—"

"Forgive me-" it was the Lord Merton, though Guy saw the girl looking eager to speak, "-but you have been in Nottingham but a week."

Guy glowered, first at Merton, then at the entire assembly, and felt a twinge of pleasure at their shocked look in reply. But he reined himself in, took his seat, and replied with exaggerated munificence. "Of course. I do not yet know your ways. You are wise, and I defer to your judgement."

There was a satisfied murmur, and Sir Edward smiled with such genuine feeling Guy suddenly felt guilty at the political game he was about to unleash. For the first time, the girl seemed to feel his glance on her and looked down, embarrassed. "We are very glad to hear it," said the Sheriff. "Now, that being settled, I would like, as the Sheriff of Nottingham, to be the first to formally welcome Sir Guy to our shire." There was a smattering of applause and noncommital murmurs. Guy inclined his head slightly, unsure where Edward was taking this. "We hope he will soon find his useful employment, as we all must, in God's plan." There was more murmuring at this. "To that end, I will be holding a feast at Knighton in three days' time to welcome him. I trust I will see you all there."

This brought genuine warmth, and the nobles broke into spontaneous applause. Guy, for his part, could not believe that Edward, whom he had contradicted—respectfully, it was true—at every turn was throwing a party for his benefit. Yet it was also Edward who had now left his seat and was offering his hand in friendship. Guy felt obliged to take it, though momentarily bewildered. Edward had to be deposed, of course; he was much too weak, and Guy knew Vaisey craved the office of Sheriff for his own, and had for many years. Yet Guy, privately saying an "Our Lady," hoped it could be done without the death of the old man.


	3. Letter 6

viii.

Feast of St Fridolin

6 March Year of Our Lord 1190

Theodosia,

Do you not think I should come to you? You ask for counsel about the itching on the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. None of the women at Knighton had itching such as this when they were with child, but do not let that alarm you. If your midwife says all women itch in childbirth, then perhaps you should interpret her more philosophically—she means you not to fret. At the same time, she could have said so in a way less demeaning to your intelligence.

You were eager to hear more of Sir Guy of Gisborne. My father has done him the great honor—much greater than he deserves—of holding a celebration feast of welcome at Knighton, and I must write quickly—and smudge these pages, I am so sorry—if I am to finish preparing in time for the guests' arrival. I admit, dear heart, my father's actions took me by surprise. This Gisborne, who stamped and glared across the council chamber without a forward-thinking remark of any kind, is a minor lord without lands. (If you have any gossip from Old Melisende, do share it. And don't think me prurient and don't compare me to Sarah the innkeeper's wife. I ask on behalf of my father, who should know of any potential threat.) Yet my father thinks he is young and easily led. He wants to preempt his loyalties before anyone else can. Which is wise, of course. But is he worth it? I think a tourney would have been a better suggestion than a party, given then we could at least see Gisborne fight.

And no more of this foolish matchmaking! They say that when a woman is married she has nothing better to do with her time; I thought better of you!

Give my love to your father. We have missed seeing him, and my father—though he does not say as much—longs for the company of his kin. Though I hope tonight's festivities ease some of his burden, I think he took my warnings about "evil from the north" and the pedlar more seriously than I imagined at the time. He is fretful. I do not mind when he is occupied; as much as I dearly love him, when his mind is on matters of government, I am free to do as I wish instead of being caught by the cook—who is still going on about the privy door—whenever I wish to go riding or when I want to read in the solar instead of darning another set of hose. But when he is fretful . . . I can only hope I am not the cause.

I would send you a knitted cap for Baby William, but you know anything I knit turns into one interconnected knot. Please know that I pray for you nightly and think of you daily.

Marian


	4. Interlude 2

ix.

Surveying the great hall at Knighton, Guy could not help but be struck by the genuine warmth of the celebration. There was love and devotion for this Sheriff and his daughter of a kind that could not feigned, bought, or inspired by fear. He stood at one of the lintel beams, arms across his chest, watching the melee. There were minstrels performing in front of the largest table, where the lords from the Council of Nobles were taking their fill of the revels. Guy could not see Edward or his daughter there, but with a hall so full of moving people, this was not surprising. The people of the estate, and the neighboring villages, he wagered, had been invited to the feast, wearing their homespun best. He had already eaten, but the curling smoke laced through with the rich, briney scent of the sturgeon, pike, eels, and barnacle geese—it was Lent—half moved him to sit down to table again. Taking one step forward almost brought him careening into kitchen boys bringing manchet loaves from the scullery and cup-bearing girls with so many jugs of ale Guy thought greedily of what wealth Vaisey would have—and share—when he was Sheriff. Vaisey had promised him lands and an estate—Guy's task was to see which one he wanted for himself. He abandoned his attempt at a second helping and remained standing.

Knighton had its charms—Guy lazily held out his cup for a refill from the pretty serving wench who came nearest to him, simpering with eyes that practically bathed him admiration—but the very love which the peasants had for its "good, generous" master Sir Edward turned him away from the idea. They would be too much trouble. He would take no pleasure in breaking them. Those who needed to be taught a lesson would find in him a very willing teacher.

He sighed. These were simple, inoffensive folk. They loved King Richard without thought or question. They could be led, one way or another, and when Vaisey was Sheriff and Guy in power, they would be swayed to follow their law and order. The room was filled with the sweet smell of herbs that hung from the doorways. The rushes, he noticed underfoot, had been freshly changed. Looking down, one of the hounds that had bristled threateningly at him when he had crossed the threshold now moved toward him cautiously, tail wagging hopefully.

"Eusebius! Leave Sir Guy!"

Guy was too occupied in removing the sniffing canine's nose from the top of his boot to look up at Marian of Knighton as she said this. When she had called the hound to her, laughing, he saw that she was dressed in pale green with her hair pulled severely from her face. He frowned at the formality of her dress as opposed to the unabashed pleasure in her face as she called her dog to her. He felt strangely disappointed when the pleasure faded to a formality of expression that matched her clothing and carriage.

"I am sorry, Sir Guy. He is a little overenthusiastic."

He was thinking of the uncomfortable moment when he had arrived to the feast, and Sir Edward had formally introduced him to his daughter. Marian had looked very young indeed, then, curtseying stiffly before him, and his efforts at careless chitchat were matched only by hers—desultory. If he hadn't felt so thrown, he would have been insulted at her lack of respect. To compensate, he said, "Does your father hunt?"

"When his duties permit it," she said vaguely, glancing beyond him even as she affectionately stroked the hound's ears as it sat in front of her legs protectively, its lower body hidden beneath her gown.

Guy set his jaw. Her lack of interest bordered on insolence. Though, to be fair, he relented, there could be very little for them to say to each other. "Sir Guy!" They both turned to see Marian's father coming toward them, arms outstretched. "Why do you stand here on your own? You should be sitting and enjoying the music and the refreshments!"

"I assure you, Sir Edward, that I have done so." Guy inclined his head. "It is a good feast and a good welcome." Nevertheless, Sir Edward beckoned them both to sit down. Marian, Guy noticed, gave the dog a final rub behind the ears before she set it off into a corner to gnaw on a bone. She picked up her skirts with dignity and followed her father to the main table. Guy shrugged and followed as well. Edward sat him on his right side while Marian was on the old Sheriff's left. They had taken their seats as one of the village women had finished a song. She curtseyed to the audience and their applause. Then she held out a hand toward Marian.

"Would that Lady Marian gave us a song?"

The company around them turned to look at Marian, who blushed quite naturally—and quite becomingly, Guy thought to himself—as people seated next to them insisted she sing a song. "I am sorry," Marian demurred. "As everyone here knows—except perhaps Sir Guy—I cannot sing. I do not have any of the female arts." There was a long raucous chorus that spoke of disbelief for her statement, but at last Sir Edward nodded at Marian and then at the peasant woman who was still entreating her.

Sir Edward hailed a passing woman with a tankard of ale and filled Guy's cup. Guy risked a sideways glance at Marian and noted that, instead of being shamed by her admission, she seemed much happier to have foregone the opportunity. He was still looking at her when Sir Edward touched his arm. Another peasant woman had taken the dais area. There was a whispered name of "Annie," and Guy recognized the serving wench who had filled his cup earlier. As before, her gaze was bashfully, but quite openly, directed at him.

She curtseyed at Sir Edward and the other nobles further along the table. And she sang, at first waveringly, then with feeling,

"_An outlandish knight came from the north land_

_And he came wooing to me,_

_He told me he'd take me up to the north lands_

_And then he would marry me._

_'Go fetch me some of your father's gold_

_And some of your mother's fee_

_And two of the horses from the stable_

_Where they stand thirty and three.'"_

The girl called Annie sang the familiar song to its conclusion, and Guy held her gaze throughout it. All the other revellers seemed too involved in their food, drink, and company to note that the girl seemed to be singing for Guy alone; at least, if any had challenged him upon its conclusion he would have called their observations baseless. Still, as the girl curtseyed again and demurely let her gaze drop to the floor, he could see no reason not to follow her.

"Sir Guy, you cannot be leaving!" exclaimed Sir Edward.

"It is your feast," Marian observed, coolly, though her frown was expansive.

"I fear I cannot trespass on your hospitality any longer," Guy said, and meant it.

One of the nobles was calling for a toast to Sir Edward, the founder of the feast, and the Sheriff was momentarily distracted. "Marian, will you-?" he muttered to his daughter, who rose swiftly after Guy and, to his surprise, followed him to the door of the great hall.

"I take you away from your guests," he muttered, having no wish to drag her away from her party. Though she had been civil, he had expected more of this woman whom Sarah had called "queer."

"To be honest, it is a relief." He turned to her, searching her face—flushed from the heat of the great hall—for sarcasm. He found none and saw only her undeniable beauty. He had seen many women—noble and serf—and had even _known _a few, but none quite so beautiful . . . She had taken up a book which had been hidden behind the latch of the front door. "My cousin sent me a present, and I have been aching to read it all day."

"A book?" he questioned, genuinely surprised. With a slight, questioning quirk of her eyebrow, the girl Marian handed it to him. It was Geoffrey of Monmouth's _History of the Kings of Britain. _"This . . . this interests you?"

"Why not?" she replied, taking the book back from him. "Everything interests me."

"Though not the female arts."

He thought for a moment he had gone too far. But she smiled at him, acknowledging the joke. "Thank you father for the kindness," he said, not knowing what else to say.

"Good night, Sir Guy."


End file.
